Sven Vee

((Sven Vee continued from There Is No Passion, There Is Serenity))

"You go ahead," Sven's friend said, turning the car key. The engine shut down audibly. "I'll wait right here."

Sven frowned, squirmed in his seat like he was six again and was just about to eat Brussels sprouts for the second time in his life.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked.

"You started it," his friend replied, as the lighter clicked twice and the scent of tobacco wafted through the car. "You have to finish it. That's how this works." Sven could hear the shrug. "Paradox otherwise."

"I'm pretty sure we're well past that point," Sven said. "Multiple choice, remember? Can't we just say this is a timeline where it didn't happen?"

He sniffed and wrinkled his nose.

"You really should step outside to do that, by the way," he said. "It'll never come out of the upholstery."

There was an ethereal laugh.

"Things weren't really meant to go this way," Sven added. "I'm not even sure it makes sense anymore."

"Just go get it over with," the voice said. "And be sure you remember your lines."

The Tennessee air was cool and calm as Sven watched himself step outside, closing and locking the door behind him, but when he stepped between the lines and stood before himself it felt like it came to an impossible, muggy boil. For just a moment, he regarded the man—the boy—in front of him, and it took all he had to not recoil.

The younger Sven was clean-shaven, shorter hair but still long, dressed like anyone might have been. He had obviously not been wearing the same clothes for a week. He looked like a normal person. That was because he was, still, and that fact brought this raging turmoil of sadness and jealousy and anger, and the words that had felt wrong when Sven went over them in his head moments ago suddenly made perfect sense.

"Jesus," he choked out. "Here we are, eh? Here we are."

"What—" the younger Sven said to himself, "I... what?"

The voice was close, but wrong, a notch or two lighter, more innocent. Pure? No, naïve, he thought. In that moment, it was the pity that was strongest, but only by a little.

"Oh," said Sven, "oh don't worry about me. Don't worry about any of this. You're having a good day, right?"

"N-no," the long-gone Sven said. "I mean, I was, I mean..."

"Don't worry," said Sven. The confusion was coming back now, and anger behind it, but not directed at the boy in front of him. He tried to explain, knowing that he would fail. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. I'm getting ahead—behind—I'm a little bit lost. Or maybe I should say I've misplaced myself. But it doesn't matter."

The boy in front of him made a face like he was the one eating the Brussels sprouts. Sven tried to remember what he'd been thinking when—if—this had happened to him. It was fuzzy. A lot of things were, especially the ones that had actually taken place. He'd thought he was dying, he thought. How right he'd been.

"It doesn't matter," Sven said again. "I hope you're having a good day. You're not going to have good days for a long while after this, no you are not. So enjoy it while you can. Don't let me go messing it up."

"Who are you?" the younger doppelganger finally managed. He looked back and forth, but Sven had no need to follow his gaze. All was still. No neighbors were outside. No cars drove past. The boy hesitantly continued. "What are you doing?"

The weariness that fell over Sven at the prospect of continuing the façade was palpable. Denial? he thought. That's beneath us.

"Oh, come on, let's dispense with that," Sven said. He remembered, now, how this next part went. He knew why.

No pretending.

His left hand shot out, grabbing the younger Sven by the throat, slamming him backwards into the door. Something flashed through the boy's eyes, something terrified, a combination of incomprehension and meekness and disbelief and horror, and Sven felt a flash of piteous flaming rage for a moment and thought, what if, what if we end it now, and squeezed the boy's neck for just a moment. But that wasn't how this went. When his captive brought his hands up to try to pry the fingers loose, Sven reached forward with his other hand, pawing at the boy's coat.

It was a pea coat, thick and wool, probably overkill for today but he had once liked how it looked and felt. Sven grabbed at the coat, twisted his hand, pulled even as he braced the sputtering boy against the door, then in a second it was over. Sven stumbled backwards, the firmness of plastic pressed between fingers and palm. The boy slumped to his knees, gasping, coughing. Sven ran his fingertips over the ridges.

Smiling invisibly behind his beard, Sven raised his hand, held up his prize, showed it off. He'd ripped one of the naval-style buttons free from the pea coat. The anchor design nearly glistened in the sunlight. Sven turned the button over once or twice, then flipped it like a coin and snatched it out of the air and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Well," he said, "enjoy yourself as much as you can. Just remember: it always gets worse."

The he was gone, leaving the boy to sputter in his wake.

"What?"

"How did it go?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Sven rubbed the button in his pocket.

"That bad?"

"No," Sven said, and paused. He looked directly at the driver and smiled. "I just don't feel like telling you about it right now."

"...you probably won't get another chance."

There it was, the truth both of them had felt for a while now, out in the open.

"Probably not," Sven said. "I hope you don't mind too much."

There was no response except the clicking of the lighter as the engine hummed back to life.

((Sven Vee continued in A Portrait Of The Artist As A Dead Man))